Darkness Returns
by drakontion
Summary: I found some old Skyrim fic I'd never uploaded. So here you go! I really wish you could marry Brynjolf in the game. But you can't, and this is how I cope with it.


The summer of 226 was a harsh one in the southern corner of Skyrim: dry and dusty and abnormally long, the air laden with a gritty haze blown over from Morrowind to the east. It had followed after an unusually mild winter, with very little snowfall. The forest around Riften withered in the heat, trees bare and sere against the shimmering sky; while hunters found their game increasingly scarce, those that could still bear to go out under the merciless glare of the sun. The shores of Lake Honrich receded more with every passing week, the waters thickened and murky, leaving salmon exposed and drowning on smelly, muddy banks. The town's citizens were listless and grumpy in the heat, children and adults and animals alike left panting in whatever shade they could find. Elders shook their heads and gathered over warm drinks in the Bee and Barb, predicting dire consequences to anyone who'd listen, but few could muster up the energy to care.

The great cistern in the centre of Riften did not flow as swiftly as it should have, its sluggish current barely shifting the inevitable accumulated debris of the city. Brynjolf had frowned, and ordered various unlucky members of the Thieves Guild to clear it out periodically, but without a steady, cleansing flow of water their efforts were merely stopgap. After a while they gave up, and a reeking mess built up around the grates of the sewers. It made receiving the blessings of Nocturnal a noxious experience, at best.

As expected, it was the poor who started dying first. Beggars Row was closed off after several skinny, pitiful bodies were found there by the guard. They dragged the corpses out and buried them hastily behind the temple of Mara, the priests giving them the barest minimum of funeral rites and respect. Some of the more religiously minded residents of the city had a mind to be scandalised, but they were only beggars, and it was too hot to care.

After Beggars Row was sealed off, the Jarl sent a clerk to the alchemist's shop to request remedies. The clerk opened the door and found him wracked with fever and coughing, collapsed upon the damp and slimy floor of his shop. He died less than a day later. One of the children from Honorhall died a few days later, with the rest fevered and ill. Haelga, past fifty but still hale and comely, collapsed in the marketplace the day after that, and then it seemed half the men of the town were deathly sick.

Brynjolf became more concerned when the residents of the Warrens started dying. That was far, far too close to home. He sent a couriered message to Markarth, where the Guild Master still resided, advising her of the presence of disease in Riften and telling her to not attend under any circumstances. Then he set about trying to bolster his people against plague.

Ingrid was sitting alone, reading, in Vlindrel Hall when the courier arrived. He cleared his throat awkwardly, head ducked in the presence of the legendary Dragonborn, and presented her with a folded parchment sealed with a dark blob of wax. She ran her thumb over the impression of a stylised bird, wings outstretched and embracing a flat disc, and stared down at it for a moment. The courier cleared his throat. Ingrid looked up, her lips pressed together and brow drawn, before throwing him a septim and bidding him on his way. The courier caught it deftly and turned to leave, almost running into the largest man he'd ever seen, who loomed and grunted down at him. One white eye glared menacingly, and the courier flushed and backed away hurriedly, almost tripping down the many flights of stairs in his haste.

Argis wandered to the kitchen and pulled out a hunk of bread. "What is it, love?"

Ingrid looked up, startled. "Oh... a message. From Riften."

"Well, what's it say?"

She flushed, making the tattoo on her cheek stand out starkly. "I hadn't opened it yet."

"It's not going to get itself read, now is it? Best you open it and get it done." Argis sat down heavily at the table and bit into the bread, chewing noisily. She smiled at him fondly, and thumbed the seal again, before cracking it neatly in two and scanning the missive.

"Talos preserve us!"

Argis looked up. Ingrid was gripping the parchment tightly, her knuckles white. "What is it, love?"

She pushed up in a burst of energy, chair clattering to the floor, and rushed to the bedroom. "I need to go to Riften."

He put down his bread. "Why?"

"Plague." Her voice was muffled.

Argis got up and picked up the message, scanning it quickly. "Love, it says not to come to Riften."

"I know, that's why I have to go."

"You're not making any sense."

She came out at a trot with a full pack. He grabbed her by the arms as she passed, and she looked up at him, face full of anguish. "They're dying, Argis, I can't just leave them there."

"What are you going to do? You're no healer. You can't even heal yourself."

She twisted in his grip. "I know, but..."

He shook her, just a little. "Then what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Something. Maybe there's some sort of cure we can find... I don't know!"

Argis sighed and pulled her against him. Ingrid struggled briefly, but his arms were like stone, and she could never move him when he didn't want to be moved. She gave up and succumbed to his embrace, resting her head against his chest. "I can't just not do anything," she whispered.

He grunted. "I suppose not."

They stood there for a while, braced against each other, before he spoke again. "Well, if you're going, then I'm going too."

"What? Absolutely not."

"Yes."

"Argis, no. You can't come. It's Riften. It's too dangerous for you."

He threw back his head and laughed loudly. "Too dangerous for me? Ingrid, really."

She pushed at him ineffectually, making him laugh harder. "Stop it, Argis, it's not funny."

"It is too. You thinking I'd be in danger in Riften. What makes Riften any less dangerous for you?"

She froze, and he prodded her. "Hmm? Hmm?"

She turned her face away.

"I'm going, and that's that, wife. Now," he leaned down and planted a quick kiss on her forehead. "I'm going down to the stables to order some horses. Pack for me, will you?" He strode to the door, picking up his axe on the way, and paused at the door. "No running off without me, Ingrid. I mean it."

Ingrid looked after him helplessly, but his face was implacable. "I... very well."

He smiled at her briefly. "Love you," he said, and then he was gone.

The trip from Markarth to Riften normally took five days, four with changes of fresh horses. Ingrid planned to be there in three.

They made good time initially. The roads had been fairly quiet since the last Forsworn incursion had been put down brutally a decade before. They galloped the horses at night and slept in the saddle while walking them gently during the day. Late on the second day, as they were passing through the woods northeast of Falkreath, Argis leaned over and grabbed the reins of Ingrid's mount, forcibly halting it and jerking her from the trance of travel.

"We're stopping. Now. This is ridiculous, Ingrid, the horses are dead tired and you'll fall asleep as soon as you get there."

"But..."

"Now, love. Please."

She looked at him searchingly, noting the strain and darkness around his eyes, and her face softened. "All right." She looked around, taking a moment to orient herself. "We're not far from Pinewatch. We can stay there. The place has been deserted for years, as far as I remember."

He squeezed her hand. "Lead on then, love."

She smiled, and clucked at her horse, spurring it on.

Pinewatch, as it turned out, was _not_ deserted, but the bandits stood no chance against them, even as sore as they were from constant riding. Ingrid knelt and picked over their bodies briefly, chuckling to herself.

"I remember a time when I would have stripped ones like this bare, just to get enough money to spend on better stuff. Oh well." She groaned as she rose, hands knuckling her back. "I'm getting too old for this."

Argis snorted. "The mighty Dragonborn, old? Perish the thought."

"I'd kick you if you weren't so far away."

"No you wouldn't," he replied, grinning at her, and she laughed.

"Come on. Let's clean this mess up and find something to eat. And then a bed."

He leered at her. "A bed, eh? I thought you were getting too old for that sort of thing."

"I'm never too old for _that_ , love. But I may be too tired, if we don't hurry up and get this done."

"Well," Argis said, sighing dramatically, "I guess I _am_ sworn to carry your burdens..."

Ingrid swatted him as she went past. "I swear, if I hear that one more time..." He grabbed her and kissed her, and they laughed together as they cleared away the bodies of the fallen.

By the time they reached Heartwood Mill on the evening of the next day, all levity had ceased. It was oppressively hot and the forest was dead and still around them. There was a rotten stench in the thick, humid air; it sickened the stomach of human and animal alike. The horses baulked and had to be prodded onwards, step by reluctant step.

Ingrid shared a worried glance with Argis. "I don't like this."

He grunted. "Me neither. But you wanted to come."

She pressed her lips together. "I know. I just didn't know it would be like this."

"Why, because being told there's a plague means it's all good there?"

"I know, Argis. I know." Sighing, she dug her heels into her mount's flanks. "Should we leave them at the stables? Or at one of the farms?"

"We have to go all the way around to the north gate to reach the stables," he replied, "do you want to go all the way around?"

"I guess not," she replied. They made the rest of the trip in silence.

Snow-Shod Farm was deserted. They dismounted at the gate, looking around. Argis tied the horses up at the mill, then disappeared into the cottage. He came out shaking his head, face sombre. Ingrid sighed, and untied their packs from the horses' saddles. She handed Argis his, and they set off up the road.

It was full dark by the time they reached the city. Riften was overhung by a pall of bitter smoke. There were no guards at the gate, and no sounds coming from over the walls. Ingrid wiped sweat from her face and pushed the heavy wooden doors of the gate open. They entered the city silently.

"Where to?" Argis asked as he looked around.

"The temple," Ingrid replied shortly, striding off. He shrugged and followed her.

There were no bodies in the street, for which Ingrid was profoundly grateful, but the stench of death, decay and burning was heavy in the air. Haelga's Bunkhouse had been burnt down, only recently by the looks. Charred timbers stretched upwards like skeletal fingers clawing at the hazy sky, some still smouldering. She shuddered and continued on down the street.

The marketplace was deserted, though there were still some lights on in the upper floors of the inn and some of the houses around it. Nothing moved: no dogs, no children, not even the perennial beggars underfoot. The stones of the square were hard and cracked, the weeds between them burnt and dead. Even the waters of the canal seemed dead. She peered over the balustrade - in the dim light of the moons the water looked thick and murky, with a sickly oily sheen, and a sour scent wafted up at them.

"Please tell me we're not going down there," said Argis as he drew up beside her."

"No... well, not really?"

"Ingrid..."

"Please, Argis. Trust me."

He grunted. "I trust you, love. That doesn't mean I don't know when you're keeping secrets from me." She opened her mouth to protest and he held up a hand, cutting her off. "You've been keeping secrets from me for over twenty years. A few more hours won't hurt."

Ingrid stared at him, mouth still partly open, and then tears welled up in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He looked at her, eyes hard. "So am I," he said, and strode over to the steps of the temple.

She watched him go. "I'm sorry," she repeated softly. "Argis, wait!" He turned around.

She sniffed, and walked over to him. "I'll tell you everything, I promise. Once we find out..."

He nodded, once. "Aye."

Ingrid smiled up at him tentatively, but he didn't respond, and her face fell. She sighed and stepped past him. "This way."

Leading him through the grounds of the temple, she paused in front of crypt. "I... you must understand, Argis, anything you see from now on is a strictly guarded secret. My life would have been forfeit had I told you."

He looked at her steadily. "Do you trust me?"

"What?"

"Do you trust me?"

"I... yes, I trust you."

"Then trust me with this."

She bit her lip, obviously torn, then closed her eyes. "I trust you, love."

He reached out and gathered her to him. "Good. Now tell me."

Ingrid embraced him tightly, and they stood there together in front of the crypt for a long moment, while the night deepened around them. Eventually she stirred. "It all started a long, long time ago; long before I met you, long before the war ended or the dragons were stopped..."

The telling took a long time and the moons were high in the sky by the time she had finished. Argis stood there, trying to comprehend what she'd said. "You honestly expect me to believe that you've been the Master of the Guild of Thieves for two decades?"

"Yes."

"But... how could I not know about this?"

"I'm a _thief_ , Argis. I'm a good thief. It's not common knowledge. If it were, I wouldn't be good at what I do."

"Yes, but..."

"I am what I am, Argis. I'm a thief. I'm also the Dragonborn, the storm blade of the rebellion, and a bard, and I'm your wife. I'm still the same person I always was."

"Well," Argis sighed. "At least this explains why you keep wandering off in the middle of the night. And why the guards never come to our house. And... a couple of other things."

She chuckled softly. "Being Guild Master has some benefits."

"So I see."

She paused, and looked up at him. "Thank you. For asking. And understanding."

"I live but to serve, oh Guild Master."

She laughed. "I love you."

"I love you too," he replied huskily. "Let's go, hey?"

She nodded, and leaned up and kissed him, and then pulled away. "Stand back," she said, and pressed a cunningly hidden button in the stone sarcophagus on display. There was a creaking, and then the floor of the crypt pulled away to reveal steps leading down into darkness.

Ingrid pulled out a torch and lit it, then started down the steps, Argis close on her heels.

Brynjolf was dreaming. He was surrounded by cool, clear water that sparkled invitingly in the sunlight. He could see the gleam of gold through the water, a seeming treasure trove, and he plunged his head in to find it. Again and again he dove, coming up with handfuls of coins and gems. But he had nowhere to put them. He could be rich beyond his wildest dreams if only he had somewhere to put the loot. He dove again and again, until his breath grew short, and the sun darkened around him, and the water became dark and foreboding. "One more time," he thought, but when he held his breath he started to cough; heavy racking barks that tore at his lungs and his throat, and then he was choking, breathless and scared...

"Shhh," murmured a familiar voice. "Shh, Brynjolf."

The cool water was back again, this time on his forehead, and he opened his eyes.

"Lass?" he croaked. "What are you doing here?"

His Guild Master was seated on the side of his bed, leaning over him and smiling down sadly. "You needed me."

He coughed again, and she moved swiftly to raise him to ease the paroxysm. "I told you not to come," he rasped.

"You and me both," said a harsh male voice, and Brynjolf turned his head, peering into the shadows.

"Argis?"

There was a grunt in response, and he fell back, exhausted. Ingrid smiled at him. "Don't mind him. That's Argis' way of saying hello when he's grumpy."

"Shouldn't... be down here..."

Ingrid sponged at his forehead again. "He came with me. I bear full responsibility."

"You will," Brynjolf rasped.

"Shhh," said Ingrid. "Don't talk. Save your strength. We need you to get well."

He coughed tearingly. "Others...?"

She sighed. "They're dead, Brynjolf. I'm sorry."

He lay stunned on his bed and looked at the ceiling. Dead? All of them? Twenty years they'd worked hard to rebuild the Guild, and now it was dead? Impossible. Not after all they'd done, all they'd fought for.

"Sleep," whispered his Guild Master, and he closed his eyes obediently, still reeling.

Ingrid sighed and looked down at the form of her second, his once husky and vital frame now weakened and made frail by illness. His hair, greyed with the passing of years, was greasy and matted. She smoothed it away from his face, fighting back tears.

Argis stirred. "He doesn't have long," he said quietly.

"I know," she whispered, and her voice hitched. "I wish there was something I could do."

"You'll be here for him when he goes. That's all any man can ask for."

She nodded. "Please, love. Leave me with him for a bit?"

"Okay," he said reluctantly. "I'll look after the other bodies." He walked up to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. She pressed her cheek to it, but kept her eyes fixed on Brynjolf, and after a moment he sighed and walked away.

Ingrid sniffed, and wiped at her face where the tears had started to tickle. "Brynjolf," she whispered, "you bastard, don't leave me." She wiped his face with the damp cloth and wrung it out. "Twenty four years you've told me you had more important things to do. Twenty four years I waited. I even married someone else because you told me to. Because you didn't want me. You can't go now. It's not fair."

She wiped her nose. "I love you, you obstinate, pig-headed, stubborn man. I love you." She burst into tears and buried her face in her hands, sobbing softly.

Brynjolf stirred and opened his eyes. "Oh, lass," he whispered. He raised a shaking hand to her face, and she looked up, startled.

"Brynjolf..."

"Shhh," he rasped. "Never fear, lass. I loved you." He smiled at her, sadly. "I loved you too well to leave you linger here, in the darkness." He smoothed her hair back from her face and cupped her cheek. "I wanted you myself, but I made you leave," he coughed, turning his head away. "Because you were meant for the sunlight, not... this..."

"But..."

"You married a good man, and I'm glad." He paused, breathing heavily. "But it's time to let me go."

"No!" whispered Ingrid, her voice agonised. "Brynjolf, please, don't say that..."

"Hush, lass, let me finish." He coughed again, wetly, and blood lined the curve of his lips. Ingrid bit back a sob and dabbed at them with the cloth. He closed his eyes and took a ragged breath before continuing.

"I can hear... Nocturnal calling me, lass. She'll call you too, one day. Then... then we'll be together. I promise."

She nodded, the tears dripping from her face to his.

"Sorry lass," he whispered. "Important things... to do. Another time... my love." He gave one final, gasping breath; and then his eyes fixed on the darkness and he smiled, just a little. "Mother," he whispered, and then he was gone.

They dressed him in his old, worn Nightingale armour and placed his body at the foot of Nocturnal's shrine, along with the rest of the guild and those associates who were found - Vekel and Dirge and the current merchants. Ingrid folded his fingers over the hilt of his favourite sword, and if her own lingered caressingly as she did so, who was Argis to comment?

They had decked the bodies with what herbs and dried flowers they could find at the Ragged Flagon and the alchemist's shop, and doused them all with oil. They'd taken bottles of wine and smashed them over the furniture, and barricaded the doors to the Warrens and the Vaults.

Now they stood over the bodies, each with a lit torch in hand.

"Is there anything else you want to do?" Argis asked his wife. They'd already cleaned out the treasure from the Guild's vault, the Crown of Barenziah and the gilded trophies she'd collected so many years earlier. The room was empty and fetid and more than a little ominous.

She shook her head. "No," she whispered. "It's finished here." She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Brynjolf's lips. "Go with the shadows, my brother."

She knelt one last time at Nocturnal's shrine, and was briefly illuminated in a swathe of shadows and darkness, and then turned around and walked swiftly to the crypt exit. Argis shrugged and followed.

At the ladder she paused and looked around at the cistern, her eyes hard and dry. Then without a word, she tossed the torch into the pile of wine-soaked debris in the centre of the room and climbed up into the light. Argis swore, tossed his own torch, and scrambled up after her.

The sun had just broken over the horizon, its first rays gilding the underside of a low bank of clouds, and washing kindly over the weathered buildings of the town. Ingrid took a deep breath and faced into the dawn. A breeze blew from the east, cooling and blowing away the taint of the city. There was a distant, ominous rumble, and she smiled. "Looks like rain," she said.

"Are you all right?" asked Argis, eyeing her worriedly.

She sighed. "I will be, love. I will be."

"What will you do now?"

She paused, and thought for a bit. "Do?" she repeated, and then she smiled, gloriously.

"I'm the Master of the Thieves Guild," she said, "and it's high time the Guild was returned to its former glory."


End file.
